


Quo Vadis: The B Disc

by Paeonia



Series: Quo Vadis: The Extended Edition [2]
Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Author Commentary, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 08:38:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14540916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paeonia/pseuds/Paeonia
Summary: Chapters with bonus commentary; scenes that didn't make it in.... Extras for my fic "Quo Vadis", a prequel about Daniel Sousa, how he got that lead, and his journey through to the SSR.As new chapters are added, they may be inserted ahead of existing chapters, so that they follow the order of the original fic.





	Quo Vadis: The B Disc

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Quo Vadis?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3804475) by [Paeonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paeonia/pseuds/Paeonia). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daniel Sousa travels from the hospital in Atlantic City, where he's convalescing after the loss of his leg, to New York City to interview for the SSR.
> 
> Chapter 41 of my fic "Quo Vadis", intercut with author comments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For QV's third birthday, I offered to do author notes, DVD-commentary style, on particular chapters or passages. Annie+MacDonald requested Chapter 21.

Even without a parlor car, the train to New York seemed luxurious to Sousa. Maybe because it was a civilian train? 

* * *

> First time he's been on a train since the hospital train to Atlantic City.  

* * *

A comfortable seat, a quiet car, a quiet neighbor who was absorbed in the morning newspaper.... Sousa looked out the window for a while, and then fell into a light doze as the miles clacked away behind them.  

Their first and only stop was Trenton.  As they pulled into the station, Sousa felt a little surprised at the sight of the platform until he remembered: the shades were up. This wasn't a troop train, so there was no need to close them. He took advantage of the stop to walk around in the car and stretch his legs.

Soon they were on their way again. As they drew closer to New York and entered the tunnel, Sousa felt his stomach start to float. Just nerves, that was natural, no need to let them be a distraction.  He turned his attention to the tasks ahead with the ease of years of practice: Stay calm, and stick to the plan. He'd get off the train, he'd look for Major Tucker. One step at a time. 

The train slowed, and sighed a whistle as it came to a stop. Once the car had emptied out a little, Sousa stood up and looked around.  

There was no baggage man to be seen. And he didn't feel like waiting.  

He adjusted his stance and locked the knee of the prosthetic, held on to the overhead rack with his right hand, and used his left to pull his bag off the rack and lower it to his seat. He slung the strap over his left shoulder, picked up his crutches, and managed to get himself into the vestibule and out onto the platform. He took a few more steps to get out of the way and stopped to look around. As the crowd moved away towards the stairs, he saw Major Tucker striding down the platform, a private following close behind.  

"There you are!" said Tucker. "At last! Welcome to New York — what the hell are you doing with that bag? Katsaros'll take that for you."  

"Thanks," said Sousa. He handed off his bag to Private Katsaros. Tucker shook Sousa's hand and started leading him up the platform.  

"So how was your trip? Looks like everything went all right on the train, on time and everything. You're good with stairs, right?"  

Sousa looked ahead at the enormous staircase rising from the platform to the concourse: three flights, it looked like. He wondered if this was part of the interview.  

* * *

 

 

 

> After the chapter was published, I finally found a contemporary photograph of Penn Station that seemed to show escalators. But an escalator would have been even more difficult for Daniel; from what I've read, even now leg amputees tend to avoid them. 
> 
> I don't think that Tucker was testing Sousa. But I do think that he was on the lookout for any further evidence of how far Sousa had come in his recovery.

* * *

"Still getting up to speed," he said. "But yeah." 

"After you, then."  

Sousa slowly climbed the stairs, with Tucker and Katsaros following him. At least they were keeping people from crashing into him from behind.  He was able to make it up to the concourse without needing any long, obvious breaks.   

Tucker and Katsaros led him out of the station to a waiting car, and in a few minutes they were driving south through Manhattan.  

"Ever been to New York before?" asked Tucker.  

"Not really."  

"Yeah, this isn't exactly the scenic route." Tucker raised his voice to address the driver. "Which is good, Durkin, it's exactly what we need."  He turned back to Sousa. "Maybe another day when we're not so pressed for time."  

They pulled up in front of a New York Bell Company building. "We'll get out here," said Tucker. "We're renting a temporary office in this building."  

* * *

>  Yeah, right. 
> 
> But thinking about it — does the government own the building and then rent to the other tenants that Peggy mentions? 

* * *

Tucker led Sousa through the lobby to the elevators; Katsaros followed, carrying Sousa's bag. The elevator carried them up a couple of floors and opened to a half-finished corridor. Ladders and drop cloths leaned against the unpainted left wall; the entire right wall was paneled with what looked like switchboards in varying states of assembly. A couple of the base cabinets had upturned men's legs and feet poking out into the corridor, like pedals on a piano. Extension cords snaked around the floor and into the cubbies where the wiremen were working.  

* * *

>  As I was plotting out the timeline, I thought it would work well to have the New York office just being launched. It seemed to fit the atmosphere of the SSR in season 1 and with the SSR finding its new place after the war. It also provided some plot possibilities.
> 
> I can't remember if saw a picture somewhere of a switchboard being assembled or just thought it up. Either way I liked the image of necessary but inconvenient work.

* * *

 "Coming through!" Katsaros hollered. The workmen drew up their knees but did not emerge.  

The last two switchboards were already functional. One of the operators kept her eyes on her work. The other operator kept working, but looked up as they turned her corner. She had red hair, glasses, and an air of unassuming authority that reminded Sousa of some invaluable sergeants he'd known.   

* * *

>  I was so pleased at how many readers recognized Rose! A glimpse for us of the future of the office (and another confirmation that this is not temporary quarters.)

* * *

 "Welcome back, Major Tucker," she said. "Everything here's been quiet. Your three o'clock called and confirmed he'd be here."  

"Thank you," said Tucker. "We're going up. Let Mr. Bailey know I'm here, will you?"  

"Right away."   

They stepped into a second elevator and stepped out into a hall in just as much disarray as the one they'd left. The air was heavy with the smell of sawdust and wet plaster. Tucker excused himself to go find Mr. Bailey, leaving Katsaros to show Sousa to the bathroom.  

The bathroom was half-completed as well; it looked like they'd knocked down a wall and were planning on doubling its size.

* * *

> I was thinking of the men's locker room.
> 
> (Wait — another thing: with all those women working in the switchboard room, why is the only ladies' restroom on the first floor?)

* * *

The important parts were working, though, and Sousa was glad for the chance to freshen up and comb his hair. He stood up, adjusted his gig line, and took a deep breath. He'd done everything he could to prepare. Now... it was time.  

Katsaros was waiting for him out in the hall. "They're ready for you in room 4. I can keep your cover for you." 

* * *

>  We see Room 4 again [in Chapter 3 of "Lonely Town"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5006851/chapters/13218085).

* * *

 "Thanks." Sousa took his hat out from under his elbow and gave it to Katsaros. He followed him down the hall to an open door.  

"Lieutenant Sousa," announced Katsaros. 

"Come on in," someone said. Sousa entered the room, and Katsaros closed the door behind him.  

Major Tucker came out from behind a table. "Mr. Bailey, I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Daniel Sousa. Lieutenant Sousa, this is Mr. John Bailey, a civilian with the SSR. To be precise, he's the Special Assistant to the Deputy Administrator for the Strategic Scientific Reserve." He glanced at Bailey; Bailey nodded, as if he were pleased that Tucker had remembered all the parts of his title, and extended his hand to Sousa.  

* * *

> To come up with Bailey's job title, I looked up the organization of the Department of War, figured out where the SSR might fit in, and started filling in the layers of bureaucracy.

* * *

 "A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant." He shook hands with Sousa, waited as Tucker shook hands, and then gestured across the table to a chair. "Please, have a seat."  

Sousa could feel Bailey's eyes on him as he sat down. He placed his crutches on the floor, instead of propping them on the table, and adjusted his chair.  

Bailey and Tucker were sitting across the table from him. As Bailey opened a file folder, Sousa took the moment to try to get a read on him. Handshake had been good, maybe a little tentative; soft, office-worker's hand. Reading glasses — late fifties, maybe? Light gray three-piece suit, well-tailored; white shirt, conservative tie, French cuffs, cuff links matched the tie. Good-looking watch.   

* * *

> So: well-dressed, well-off, clearly not military. 
> 
> I thought of Bailey as having been an executive in a firm like Westinghouse or DuPont, recruited back in the early '40s to get the SSR off the ground: not an engineer himself, but experienced in managing engineers, R&D departments, and projects. 

* * *

"Lieutenant Sousa...." Bailey looked up. "Any relation to the March King?"  

Sousa forced himself to chuckle, as if the idea had never occurred to him before. "Not that I know of."  

* * *

>  Trivia: Bailey's the fifth person in the fic to ask this question.

* * *

"Wouldn't that be something?" Bailey put down the file. "Before we get started, just a reminder that this meeting is official business of the Strategic Scientific Reserve and the Department of War, and that what we discuss is classified. Your commanding officer, Major Peyton, is aware that this meeting is taking place. Any further information he may need will be provided only by Major Tucker or myself."

* * *

>  So: Bailey's running the meeting.

* * *

"I understand," said Sousa. 

Tucker spoke up. "You may discuss the details of your service in the Army and your previous encounters with the SSR with Mr. Bailey. He has the necessary clearance." Bailey pulled a badge out of his pocket and showed it to Sousa.  

* * *

> Big thanks to @keysburg for her help with this scene, especially the spycraft/ secrecy details such as Tucker vouching for Bailey's clearance.

* * *

 "So," said Bailey, "I know Major Tucker's seen you a couple of times in Atlantic City. He tells me you were first introduced to the SSR in Belgium, you've kept quiet about that meeting (as you were ordered), and that he's told you a little bit about us."  

"No more than I'm allowed to know, of course." said Sousa. "But what he could tell me sure was interesting."  

"As you know, we're part of the Department of War, like the Army and the Navy," said Bailey. "We started off small and specialized, and civilian, 

* * *

> Bailey's not being snide to Tucker, but maybe a little territorial....

* * *

but we found ourselves growing quickly, and in unexpected directions. Now we're looking ahead. The war will end, but these are strange and uncertain times, and we don't want to get caught flat-footed again.

* * *

> ...because he's got his eye on the big picture. I picture him as being more aware of the political side of things.

* * *

"When we expanded in response to the war, it was largely thanks to personnel detailed from the Army. In peacetime, though... well, the work of the SSR doesn't really fall within the purview of the armed forces, does it, Major Tucker?"  

"We have our own fish to fry," said Tucker.

"Important fish," said Bailey. "So we need to recruit more civilians. And not just for the laboratory: it's turned out that our work includes intelligence, and sometimes even law enforcement. We need agents, not just scientists.  

* * *

> This seemed to be the most logical way to stitch together the SSR as seen in First Avenger (civilians, such as Erkine and Stark, working under the direction of a Colonel wearing an Army uniform with SSR insignia) and in Agent Carter, civilian agents again, but still under the War Department.

* * *

 "I've reviewed your war record with Major Tucker. You've had an impressive career."  

"Unfortunately, it was interrupted when you were wounded," said Tucker. "You've been recovering very quickly, but.... well, some people might wonder how a man with such a serious disability could contribute to the SSR as an agent. What would you say to that?" 

 Sousa had prepared himself for a question like this, though he was a little surprised that Major Tucker was asking it, and so early in the interview.

* * *

> My thought: Tucker wants to just get it out there and get it over with, so that they spend most of the interview (and finish the interview) talking about Daniel's qualifications.

* * *

"Well, first I would say it's obvious the SSR's being very fair and open-minded about the question, and doesn't want to overlook a man who can be part of the team. I'm grateful that you brought me in.   

"It's true I can't exactly run around the block right now, but I'm also still reconditioning. That includes athletics — weightlifting, gymnastics, that kind of thing. I've been boxing —"  

"Really!" exclaimed Bailey.  

"Yeah. Including sparring. And there's going to be a self-defense class starting up again next month. So I'm not as  _disabled_  —" he kept his voice steady — _"_ as some people might think. 

"And then there are always equalizers. I've been able to get to the shooting range with some of the folks who are returning to duty, and I got scored yesterday." He drew the score sheet out of his pocket and handed it to Bailey. Bailey nodded, as if he knew what the numbers meant, and handed it to Tucker.  

* * *

> He doesn't, of course.

* * *

"So he's already passed the first round of SSR pistol qualification," Tucker said to Bailey.  

* * *

> Tucker as interpreter. 

* * *

 Bailey looked duly impressed. "Can you drive?" he asked Sousa.  

"I know how to drive," said Sousa, "and I'll start practicing again in another week or so. But going back to Major Tucker's question — if all you need is a guy who can drive a jeep and run fast and shoot a gun, well, there's plenty of guys who can do that. You could go down to the Port of Brooklyn and take your pick. 

* * *

> Port of Brooklyn — a major debarkation point for the Army. As we know, there's also an SSR facility in Brooklyn (or was), but of course Daniel doesn't know that.

* * *

"But you want more that that. I can help you. I'm not a scientist or an engineer, but before I enlisted I had some job experience working from technical drawings, 

* * *

> working from plans at the shipyard

* * *

and then I went through engineering training in the Army. I've built bridges, put up tank traps, looked for land mines, and disarmed quite a few bombs. I've seen Hydra technology in Italy and Belgium. 

"You mentioned that the SSR's grown in unexpected directions. I was a reconnaissance scout, so for us, the unexpected was every day. We were ahead of the line, so we'd go in, look for clues, get any intel we could, call in sights, figure out the best way to get our own guys in there." 

* * *

> From research on engineering reconnaissance done in preparation for Chapter 1.

* * *

"Do you have any experience with interrogation?" asked Bailey.  

"Not like the intelligence officers," replied Sousa. "I'd talk to any prisoners we took, and to civilian friendlies. For the civilians sometimes the hardest part was figuring out how to ask the question."  

"Tell us again about your encounter with the SSR in the Ardennes," said Bailey. Sousa retold the story — leading his stragglers, finding the SSR troops; the rescue in the night; scouting the next day as they marched to safety; the Hydra booby traps....  

Tucker asked him about a couple of other missions — the field hospital and the mudslide; that business in France with the bridge, when they got cut off — Sousa didn't like thinking back to that one, he'd had nightmares about it for months, it was a miracle they'd made it back —  the Hydra tech he'd seen in Italy and France.... 

"I'd like to hear more about your education," said Bailey.  Sousa braced himself for the college question.  

"So you graduated high school, got excellent marks on your Army intake exams, and either remembered or learned enough math to pass the exam for Officer Candidate School. A lot of an agent's work takes place at a desk. Have you ever taken any classes or had any experience with bookkeeping, or accounting?"  

* * *

> So Bailey's not as worried about the college thing as Sousa feared. (Bailey's the one Sousa needs to win over, but he needs to be open-minded enough for Sousa to win over.)
> 
> Bookkeeping, of course, was how they nabbed Al Capone. And you didn't need a college degree to join the FBI at the time. 

* * *

 "No. But I'd be willing to learn."  

"How about languages?"  

"A little French and Italian — what the Army taught me, and what I picked up along the way."  

"I see you grew up in New England. Any Portuguese?" 

* * *

>  Trying to drop another hint here that Bailey knows stuff - he isn't a cartoon civilian shirt. 

* * *

"I can understand some, but it's mostly shipyard and fishermen's words, if you know what I mean."  

"Perfect for parlor conversation, I'm sure," said Bailey.   

Bailey asked him more about the courses he'd taken in the military; Tucker asked him more about what weapons he'd qualified in....  

"Yes, well, one never knows, but I doubt you'll need to renew your bayonet qualification for the SSR," said Bailey. "My next question: If we were to offer you a position as an Agent... when could you start?"  

* * *

> I picture Bailey as being under pressure to fill those desks in the new office as soon as possible. 

* * *

 "As soon as my current Commanding Officer approves."  

"And when do you suppose that might be?"  

"He hasn't said anything to me about that yet. He's really not big into making predictions."  

"Do you think maybe August?"  

"I honestly don't know. We'd have to talk to him —"  

Bailey glanced over to Tucker. He did not look happy. " — Because we're trying to get this thing up and running here, and then with the end of the fiscal year — " 

* * *

> If they can spend the money allocated for building the New York SSR during the current fiscal year, it will be easier to prove that the SSR needs the same amount of money or more for the next fiscal year. The fiscal year ends on September 30.

>   
>  The time pressure is also convenient for plot purposes.

* * *

"Even if he could start tomorrow, we might not be ready to start in August," said Tucker to Bailey. He spoke casually, in a tone that suggested that Sousa was not in the room.

* * *

> I picture Tucker here as trying to calm and redirect Bailey.

* * *

"And that's still six weeks away. That gives us plenty of time to work with Lieutenant Sousa's C.O." He glanced at his watch. "Did you have any other questions not fit for public ears? Because it seems to me that one way we can stay on that C.O.'s good side is to make sure Lieutenant Sousa gets some lunch." 

 

They took him to a chophouse a couple of blocks away. As soon as they were seated, Bailey ordered an old-fashioned; Tucker followed suit and, with a look, encouraged Sousa to order a drink as well. Sousa took the hint and had what Bailey and Tucker were having, and let their lunch orders guide his as well.  

They kept the conversation light, as Sousa assumed they would. They also kept him doing most of the talking, and Sousa couldn't help thinking he was still being interviewed, even though they were just talking about baseball and asking him about Atlantic City.

* * *

> He is, though not formally.

* * *

At one point the topic of golf came up, and Sousa had to admit he didn't play. He felt relieved when Bailey didn't seem surprised or put off,

* * *

>  Trying to hint again that Bailey isn't a cartoon snob —

* * *

 

and then quietly pleased when Bailey casually suggested he learn, as if there were no reason he couldn't. Maybe Bailey knew that amputees could play golf. Maybe Bailey had forgotten for a moment that he was an amputee. Either way, it was encouraging. 

* * *

>  If nothing else, Bailey's thinking of Sousa as a serious candidate.

* * *

 

It wasn't until they were walking back from the restaurant that Sousa remembered something Grahn had once said, months back, about bridge being like golf. 

* * *

>  [In Chapter 16](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3804475/chapters/11877947), Grahn says that bridge is "like golf, but inside, with snacks."

* * *

Back at the Bell Company building, Bailey waited with Sousa in the main lobby as Tucker made a phone call from the desk. 

"So it's off to the train station with you," said Bailey. "It shouldn't take long to bring the car around. Major Tucker says you're going on to see your family? That's terrific. When was the last time you were home?" 

" '42." 

"And how long will you be there?" 

"Ten days." 

"That's all? I should think you'd be due at least a month!" 

Sousa shrugged. "I've got to get back to rehabilitation. Harder I work now, the sooner I'll be... ready for other things." 

Bailey seemed to like that.

* * *

> Daniel served it right up for him, didn't he?

* * *

 

"Any big plans for your leave?" 

"Not really. Sleep late; eat home cooking; get roped into playing bridge with my sisters, if they can find a fourth." 

Bailey took the bait. "Oh, do you play?" 

"Yeah. Well, I'm still learning, but...." 

"Huh!" Bailey looked as if he were about to ask something else when Tucker arrived. Bailey whispered something to Tucker, and looked dissatisfied with Tucker's answer. 

"Well, that's easy," said Tucker. He handed a notebook and pen to Sousa. "Lieutenant Sousa, make sure we've got the address and phone number of where you're going to be next week, just in case." 

* * *

>  Just in case... they want to contact him about a job, perhaps?

* * *

 

"Sure." Sousa wrote in the notebook and handed it back to Tucker. 

"Thanks. Oh, here's the car. Katsaros'll see you to the platform."  

Outside, Katsaros saluted, showed Sousa his bag ("so you know we didn't forget!"), and opened the back passenger door for him. A handshake for Bailey ("A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant"); a salute for Tucker ("Good seeing you again, Lieutenant. Have a good trip"); Sousa got himself into the car as gracefully as he could manage; Katsaros closed the door; and they pulled away from the Bell building. 

Back at Penn Station, Katsaros stood by while Sousa got himself out of the car, and then took Sousa's bag from the trunk. He waved, and the driver pulled away. "Where to, sir?" he asked.   

Sousa checked his watch. He needed to tend to his leg, but he had enough time. "Let's stop by the USO first," he said. 

* * *

>  The USO had lounges for traveling servicemen at train stations.

* * *

The chief hostess at the USO showed Sousa to a little office. He had Katsaros put his bag on one of the chairs, sent Katsaros himself off to have a doughnut, took off his uniform coat, and sat down on another chair to check on his leg.  

He was a little worried; he hadn't checked it since he got dressed that morning. It looked all right, though. He changed his stump sock to be on the safe side, powdered up, and put on the prosthesis. 

It was too snug. He checked the stump sock again: It was the same thickness he usually used in the afternoon, but this afternoon it was too thick. His leg was more swollen than usual, probably because he'd been sitting so long. He massaged his leg, changed the sock for the next size down, and got dressed.  

He collected Katsaros out in the USO lounge. Katsaros gulped down his last bite of doughnut,

* * *

> because that's what you eat at the USO (though they had other food too)

* * *

collected Sousa's bag, and followed him out into the terminal. They found the departures board listing Sousa's train and made their way through the crowds and down three flights of stairs to Sousa's platform. 

When he reached the platform, Sousa took a second to adjust his crutches while Katsaros caught up with him. His train was at the platform, but had not started to board yet.  

"There's a bench over there, sir," said Katsaros. "I'll hold a place in line if you want to sit down. Which car do you want?" 

"Thanks, but I'd rather stretch my legs. I'll have plenty of time to sit on the train. You can go on if you want." 

Katsaros shook his head. "Against my orders. Major Tucker told me to put you on the train." 

Sousa couldn't argue with that. He picked a car and waited with Katsaros. Every so often he looked around to admire the station itself and its glass and steel greenhouse ceiling arching one hundred and fifty feet above the platform.  

He checked his watch again and then the station clock: it was getting very close to their departure time, and they still hadn't boarded the train. He took his book out of his bag and put it in his pocket. Finally a shrill whistle sounded and the car doors started to open. Sousa stepped into the car and chose a seat on the aisle; Katsaros stowed his bag in the overhead rack, wished him a safe journey, and elbowed his way back off the train. 

The car filled rapidly, and before long a middle-aged man in a suit was asking Sousa if the seat next to him was taken. Sousa did his best to get his knees and his crutches out of the way, and soon enough the man was settled in. The conductor appeared, helped a passenger with her bag, and scolded the other passengers jamming the aisle about Just Finding A Seat And Sitting Down Already. Sousa checked his watch again and tried to keep from getting fidgety. They weren't that late yet, and he had plenty of time to make his connection in Providence.  

When the train finally lurched forward, twenty minutes late, there were still people standing in the aisles. The conductor came through again, making his way down the aisle. Sousa got his ticket punched and leaned back in his seat. He had his book in his hand, but he didn't bother opening it. His mind was flitting between the interview and his longing to get where he was going. Only five more hours, and he'd be home. 

The first stop was New Rochelle. The man sitting next to him folded his newspaper excused himself and got into the aisle; Sousa saw several passengers in olive drab getting ready to exit as well: for Fort Slocum, he supposed.  The train stopped, the passengers exited, and the standing passengers went for the empty seats. 

Sousa's new seatmate was another middle-aged man in a suit. He waited until the train was well out of the station before he started to try to make conversation with Sousa. 

"So, where are you headed? New Haven?" 

"Providence." 

"Yeah? Fort Adams?" 

"No, headed home on a furlough." 

"Good for you." The man's eyes swept over Sousa's uniform — insignia, service ribbons, service stripes — and to Sousa's crutches. "Sure looks like you've earned it. Europe, right?" He patted the left side of his suit jacket, mirroring Sousa's service ribbons. "Normandy?" 

"No, I missed that, actually," said Sousa. "I was in the invasion from the south."  

"And you've got the little bronze star on there, right? How many battles does that stand for?" 

Sousa wondered what happened to talking about the weather, but he couldn't help being a little impressed: this fellow had been reading up. "Five. So six in all." 

The man kept going:  _Six_? Had he been in Italy? What about the Ardennes? And the next ribbons up — those were medals, right?  

"Yeah." Sousa kept his voice and expression flat. Hopefully the guy would take the hint. 

"And the purple one — that's for....?" The man glanced toward Sousa's crutches. 

Sousa didn't say anything, but the guy didn't wait for an answer. "So... what happened?" 

"Excuse me?" 

"You know...." The guy looked towards Sousa's crutches again. 

Sousa kept his voice level. "Oh. That. I got hurt. Slipped on a banana peel." 

The man looked expectant, and Sousa felt his stomach curdle.  

"Oh, it's okay," insisted the man, in a tone meant to be friendly. "No need to be embarrassed." 

Sousa pressed his lips into a thin sour smile. "Of course not."  

"Hmph." The guy gave Sousa a look of disdain. "Well. I hope you have a nice restful furlough, with plenty of time to  _adjust_  to being back home." He snapped a newspaper open and started to read. Sousa turned, leaned back, and closed his eyes as if he were napping. He breathed slowly and deeply until his face had cooled off and his hands, hidden by his crossed arms, were no longer clenched. 

The guy got off around half an hour later, at Bridgeport. To Sousa's relief, nobody took his place. As the train left the station, he checked his watch again. They were now running thirty minutes late. 

By the time they reached New Haven, Sousa had been sitting for almost two hours, and he was getting uncomfortable. Once they were out of the station, he tried walking up and down the aisle. The wobble of the train car made it a challenge to keep his footing; he had to walk slowly and pay close attention to each step. 

As he made his way up the aisle, he was conscious that he was drawing looks — mostly quick, polite looks, a friendly nod or two. A couple of passengers gave him longer, concerned looks, but Sousa didn't mind; as soon as they saw he was all right they went back to their books or newspapers. Two people asked if he needed help; when he thanked them and said he was fine, they didn't look convinced, but they left him alone.  

It was the long stares that annoyed him, especially when he turned at the end of the car and could see the round eyes of the gawkers. He was about halfway back when a man leapt up and offered to help him to his seat. For a moment, Sousa wondered if the man was going to grab his elbow and forcibly help him, and if stabbing him in the foot with a crutch would be enough to shake him off. But the guy sat down and let him pass, and didn't bug him when he went for another walk a little later.  

The next stop was New London. The car filled back up again; about half of the new passengers were sailors. Sousa looked out the window at the empty platform, and then checked his watch: a little over an hour, and they'd be in Providence.  

* * *

> The sailors arrived when I was researching the timetable and remembered the New London stop.

* * *

 The new passengers found seats; the sailors got up and started switching seats with each other; the train sat at the platform. The conductor came through, promising they'd be on the way shortly, but when the train finally pulled out of the station, they were fifty minutes behind schedule. At the next stop, they picked up more passengers and lost more time. Sousa tried not to think about what would happen if they were so late to Providence that he missed his train home. 

After the conductor came through, Sousa tried to take another walk, but it was difficult going. The train was more crowded, and groups of sailors were passing back and forth through the car looking for their friends. They did their best to get out of his way, but still, it was bothersome to try to step around them, or see them waiting politely at the end of the car as he inched back to his seat. 

Walking wasn't doing that much good anyway. It helped a little with the stiffness, but not with the swelling in his leg. What he needed to do was doff the prosthesis and change his stump sock, and there was no place to do that on the train. Instead, he stood a while longer, holding on to the luggage rack, until he sat back down and tried in vain to catch a nap. 

Finally they arrived at Providence. Sousa grimaced as he pulled himself out of his seat and into the aisle: the prosthetic was really bothering him. Any other time he might have waited until the crowd had thinned out, but there was no time for that tonight. He had to hurry if he was going to make the last train to Taunton. He adjusted his crutches and turned to get his bag, and found two sailors standing in the aisle. One of them jerked his head toward the luggage rack. 

"Which one of them bag's yours, sir?" he asked. 

 

Sousa went as quickly as he could through the station. The sailor carrying his bag strode along next to him, with a spring in his step that spoke of the joy of a three-day pass. The other sailor had taken off to meet up with their pals. 

Sousa knew his train hadn't left yet, but he couldn't help stopping and sighing in relief when he reached the platform. He adjusted his grip on his crutches and stepped forward again. 

"Which car, sir?" asked the sailor. 

Sousa indicated the car directly in front of them. "This one's fine." 

The sailor got into the car first. When Sousa stepped out of the vestibule, his shoulders sank: the car was packed, and there were already passengers standing. 

The sailor was shouldering his way down the aisle. "Ground-pounders ahoy!" he called. "Yeah, I'm talking to you, Private Yard Bird!"

* * *

>  "Ground-pounders": soldiers, especially infantry. Private Yard Bird: The sailor is comparing the soldiers to raw recruits who are standing around looking at the sky not knowing what to do with themselves. A yard bird is a backyard chicken.

* * *

Civilian passengers started to look up and smile as a small group of privates rose from their seats. "What do you want, squid?" one of them demanded. 

* * *

>  "squid": more inter-service respect.

* * *

His neighbor elbowed him and nodded toward Sousa. The group immediately pulled themselves together, and one of them took Sousa's bag. 

"Thank you, sailor," said Sousa. 

"You're welcome, sir. Have a good trip. Bon voyage, ladies and gentlemen!" The sailor exchanged a few more pleasantries with the soldiers and left the train. 

"Where would you like to sit, sir? Window or aisle?" said one of the privates. 

"Aisle would be better," said Sousa. 

By now it seemed like half the car was watching the show. A civilian in the first row offered Sousa his seat; Sousa swallowed his pride and accepted. As he sat down, Private Three stowed Sousa's bag overhead and Private One offered the civilian his own seat. Sousa concentrated on finding a somewhat comfortable position for his right leg. 

The man sitting next to him looked up from his newspaper. "Long day?" 

"Yeah." Sousa looked at his watch. It was thirteen and a half hours since he'd left the hospital, so he'd had the prosthesis on for around fourteen hours now. That was the longest he'd ever worn it. 

"Taunton your last stop?" asked the man. 

"Yeah. Thank God." 

The man smiled. "We'll probably be late getting in. But still, you're almost there." 

 

They were fifteen minutes late leaving the station. Sousa was too wound up to do anything but mentally will the train to go faster. Home, home, home.... 

They had been traveling around twenty minutes when the doors to the car opened and someone came in. Sousa glanced up, and then looked up again. The man who'd just come in was standing in front of him. An old man, a little stooped, thick glasses, white hair combed straight back, full white mustache. He looked familiar. 

"Say," said the man. "You're Frank Sousa's boy, aren't you?" 

Sousa smiled. "That's me." His memory supplied a name. "Mr. Ligeiro?"  

* * *

> Seemed appropriate to include Mr. L. in an MCU-inspired fic — was delighted when he was recognized.

 

* * *

 

Mr. Ligeiro grinned. "Ah, I haven't changed that much, have I? How long's it been now, when'd you leave? '41? '42? But look at you! I heard you might be coming home for a visit. You home for Father's Day? That's terrific." He looked up. "I'd better get where I'm going before we get home. You got someone meeting you at the train station? Well, if something happens and you need a lift, you come find me." He patted Sousa on the shoulder. "Your Pai's going to be so glad to see you. He's not the type to brag, but you can just tell, he thinks the world of you. All right, see you on the way back." 

A few minutes later, Mr. Ligeiro threaded his way back between the standing passengers. "See you around!" he said to Sousa, and disappeared into the vestibule. Another ten minutes, and the train started to slow. Sousa leaned forward and looked out the window. His breath caught as he saw the first familiar sights of the town, the cheerful lights of the shops and houses.... 

The train whistle sounded and they passed through an intersection, he could see the cars waiting for the train to go by. And then the train slowed even more, they were in the yard, and then they were pulling up to the platform. The brakes wheezed, and the train stopped. 

The man next to him stood up and leaned over. "The four musketeers back there are playing one-potato two-potato to choose who gets to carry your bag," he quietly told Sousa. "I think there's a corporal they're trying to impress." 

* * *

> Beyond common courtesy, if it got out that they let an officer — especially a wounded officer — carry his own bag, there would have been hell to pay.

* * *

 

"I wonder if the corporal's a WAC," replied Sousa. "Go ahead, I'm going to wait until the crowd empties out a little." 

The man nodded. "Good luck to you. Have a good visit home." He edged around Sousa, got himself into the aisle, and made his way out of the car. 

A minute or two later, Private Two showed up at Sousa's elbow. "Ready, sir?" 

Sousa nodded. He scooted himself forward on his seat, put his right hand on the prosthesis and took his crutches with his left hand, and stood up. He adjusted his crutches, took his first step forward, and gasped. His right leg was terribly sore, and he could feel his missing right foot going numb. 

He stepped out onto the platform and got out of the way of the doors. Private Two followed with his bag. Sousa looked around. People were still streaming up the platform, and he didn't even know who he was looking for. 

And then he heard a familiar voice: "Daniel?" As he looked around, he heard the voice again: "Charlie, look, there he is! —  _Daniel!_ " 

It was Ines. Her father-in-law was right behind her; Charlie was slithering out of his arms back down to the platform. She hurried forward the last few feet, and Daniel had just enough time to see her face suffused with piercing joy before she stepped into his open arms. Ines was half a head shorter than him, but still she did her best to scoop him up into a hug. 


End file.
